


Piss Off, We're Busy

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: The Riding Crop [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Riding Crops, Sexual Tension, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this sassy bit of Johnlock art: http://nekowork.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Game-s-changed-381640119</p><p>Sherlock surprises John with a fun alternative use of the riding crop. Lestrade interrupts. Sexytimes are resumed later, at which time Sherlock gets the whipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piss Off, We're Busy

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to write fanfics based on artwork, so if you see a picture and you want something written for it, hit me up.

John was leaning against the countertop in the morgue when he heard Sherlock return, but he didn't bother glancing up. Once the detective was finished making observations on the corpse, they could go home and he could finally have his cuppa. He needed some damn tea after today. Watching his insane flatmate bounce about, he was torn between wanting to tie Sherlock down to get some peace and quiet, or tying him down and knocking him down a peg with a thorough shag. The thought made him shiver pleasantly, if a bit wistfully. Sherlock didn't do sex. 

The sudden brush of something against the back of his neck made him freeze, but before he could jerk around, he felt Sherlock's hand press between his shoulder blades, stilling him against the counter. "Don't move, John." The slight touch came again, tracing the side of John's face, and he realized with a jolt that it was Sherlock's riding crop, the scent or leather and polish clinging to the strap as it teased his skin. 

"Sherlock, what on earth are you--oh!" His words stuttered into silence as Sherlock stepped closer to him, pressing his lanky frame directly against John's back. He continued to slide the end of the crop tenderly down John's throat and over his chest, pressing just hard enough over his striped jumper to tease his nipple into a hard peak. John groaned despite himself, then gasped in a breath. "Sherlock?"

"I said don't move," the consulting detective said, directly into his ear. His breath ghosted warmly against John's skin, making him tremble. "I shall have to punish you if you don't obey."

The words painted a vivid image in John's head, and he whimpered--actually whimpered--at how much he liked that picture. But as his imagination caught up to him, he felt a smirk flash across his face. Very slightly, he pressed his hips backwards, grinding against Sherlock's obvious arousal. The detective growled in his ear, the sound going straight to his already straining erection. 

Sherlock took a quick step back, and John gasped loudly in shock as he felt the crop come down on his upper thighs, leaving a stinging streak of delicious heat in its wake. "What!" 

Sherlock's voice was liquid heat. "I warned you. Unless you're telling me that you want me to take the crop to your arse, I suggest you follow instructions."

Before John could reply, or move, Sherlock pressed tightly up against him again, trapping him against the counter. His left hand rose to splay across John's chest, teasing the other nipple, while the right dipped slightly, bringing the end of the crop to the gap between John's thighs, running far too lightly up the inseam of his jeans and following the curve of his extremely hard cock. John groaned primitively, shaking with the need to push back against his tormentor, or push forward to find friction. 

Sherlock's voice was low and sultry in his ear. "You thought I didn't notice you wanting, John? Or perhaps that I ignored it, not wanting you back?" As John nodded and moaned, his fingers white knuckled against the edge of the counter, Sherlock breathed a soft laugh, sending shivers down John's neck. "I saw. And I wanted, too. I was trying to plan, to make it perfect. But I've lost my patience." He thrust his hips forward, and John outright growled with need as he felt Sherlock's hard-on rubbing against his arse. "What do you want me to do to you, John? Shall I bring you off here, now, in the morgue of St. Bart's? Should I yank your trousers down and fuck you over the counter?" His lips followed the curve of John's ear, his tongue slipping out to lap at the shell, making John writhe. "What a fine welcome that would be when Lestrade joins us." The crop pressed harder against John's cock, and he jerked involuntarily. "Ah, ah, ah...you're moving, John. Perhaps you do want me to take the crop to your bare skin..."

Suddenly it was too much for John. Besides the threat of getting caught by Lestrade, the poor man, he'd had quite enough of Sherlock assuming that he was going to be the one in charge when that crop finally delivered its punishment. 

He twisted hard, hearing Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath as he got his back against the counter, one thigh thrusting between Sherlock’s long, muscular legs to rub roughly against his arousal. Sherlock’s head flung back, a primal groan slipping from him. He stared down at John with wide eyes, still clutching the crop, so that it hung from his limp fingers down John’s back. The doctor stared hard into Sherlock’s stunning glasz eyes, letting the detective take in his blown pupils, flushed skin, breathlessness, and the impressive erection now pressing against the taller man’s hip. John’s eyes glinted with sinful promise.

“You’re right, I’ve been wanting. I want you in every way. But for our first time, Sherlock Holmes--” He leaned in close, fingers threading in Sherlock’s beautiful dark hair so he could yank the detective’s head down, panting the words hotly in his ear-- “The first time, I’m fucking you, understand? And not until I’ve gotten my hands on that riding crop, and have worked your arse over so well that you can’t sit down the next day.” His free hand slipped under the hem of Sherlock’s sexy-as-fuck purple shirt, fingers gripping at the pale flesh hard enough to leave bruises. As Sherlock stared at him with symptoms of arousal that matched his own, John slid his free hand around to grip the other man’s arse, squeezing hard to elicit a groan of need from him. “Got it?”

Sherlock nodded, hoarsely gasping his name. Pleased, John pulled him down again, pressing their mouths together. Eagerly he swallowed the moan that Sherlock let out, hungrily exploring the other man’s mouth. He felt Sherlock’s tongue slide over his lips tentatively, questioning, and he murmured approval as he opened his mouth in invitation. There was no battle for dominance; Sherlock seemed to have abandoned the burning, sensual authority that he begun with, and was happily folding to John’s will. It was a heady feeling.

Abruptly, the door swung open. Taken by surprise, neither John nor Sherlock moved to pull apart in time, though Sherlock broke the kiss to twist and glare at the intrusion.

Lestrade stopped dead, looking stunned and, naturally, mortified. Behind him, Sally’s voice grated the air as she spoke to Molly.

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. Narrowing his eyes at Lestrade, he said impatiently, “Piss off, we’re busy,” and ducked to kiss John again. The doctor didn’t allow him, the hand that he had yanked from Sherlock’s arse now pressing over his mouth, and he gently pushed Sherlock off him.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Come on, let’s get our job done. Sorry, Greg.”

Lestrade moved, though his face stayed flushed as the women entered the room, oblivious. “Ri...right then. On with it?”

John turned to Sherlock, who looked sulky, and grabbed the crop from him, tossing it on top of their coats on the other counter top. He leaned in, grabbing Sherlock’s shirt front to yank him close and whisper heatedly, “When we get home, you’re stripping down, and then I’m bending you over your bed and giving you a lash for every occasion you’ve left me with blue balls because I didn’t realize that you were interested. Understand?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, the hunger in them unmistakable. A grin split across his face, almost maniacal. “Oh, yes, John,” he whispered, before spinning and launching into his observations, with no acknowledgement of the furtive glances that Lestrade continued to shoot them both with. John bit back a smile, trying to calm his body down enough to make it until that evening.

***

As soon as the door to 221B closed behind him, John seized the crop out of Sherlock’s hand, trying not to grin as Sherlock went still, staring at him with barely concealed anticipation.

He let his voice take on a tone of reprimand, knowing his eyes betrayed the fact that he felt exactly the opposite. “I believe I said to strip when we got home. What are you waiting for?”

Sherlock’s face lit up, and he was out of his coat and scarf even as he bounded toward his room. John followed more slowly, laughing as he found a trail of the detective’s clothes. His beautiful purple shirt...his pristine shoes, and his socks...his trousers. John paused, stooping to tug the belt free, before he entered the bedroom itself.

Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, gazing up at him expectantly. Beside him on the mattress rested a bottle of lube and a condom, both of which John recognized as being from his own room. He arched an eyebrow at Sherlock, who smiled and shrugged. “I hoped,” he said simply.

Somehow that was overwhelming to John. He swallowed hard, not willing to get too emotional. Stepping up to the bed, he set the crop down and reached for Sherlock’s hands. When they were offered, he used the detective’s belt to tie them, grinning as Sherlock’s breath caught.

Stepping back again, John jerked his chin. “Up you get, then turn around lean over. Palms flat on the bed.”

Sherlock obeyed immediately, bracing himself on the mattress. John took him in slowly, savoring the sight before him. “Beautiful,” he murmured, tracing the end of the crop over the pale shoulders, narrow waist, and twitching hips. with a quick flick of the wrist, he left a bright spot of red right in the middle of Sherlock’s arse. Seeing his friend and lover jump and gasp, John’s heart swelled with love. “So beautiful,” he repeated, touching the heated patch of skin.

Another blow, then another, watching as Sherlock’s beautiful ivory skin turned pink and flushed, the outline of each strike standing out as angry red lines against the creamy flesh.

It was around 15 blows total that Sherlock’s whole body was wracked by a powerful tremor, and his voice emerged as a low, pleading breath. “John.”

John paused at once, watching his detective carefully. He was not in serious pain; but he was done, John knew. He set the crop aside, then side-stepped the bent figure to gently lift Sherlock’s face, pressing their lips together. “Alright, love,” he whispered back, gently stroking the sweat-soaked hair back. Grabbing a bottle of lotion sitting on the desk behind him, he lovingly spread some over the reddened flesh, hearing Sherlock’s soft sigh of relief as he did so.

When he was finished, John reached around the detective’s body, very lightly stroking a finger along his fully-hard cock, while his other hand tugged the belt loose, freeing Sherlock’s hands. “Do you want more, Sherlock? We can wait--”

A laugh tore from the other man. “No. No, we can’t--I can’t wait, John. Please. Now.” As if to emphasize, he pulled himself up onto the bed, on his hands and knees, and arched his back, head still slumped between his arms. He was such a beautiful sight, it took John’s breath away. 

“Please,” Sherlock murmured again.

John huffed out a breath, then yanked his jumper off and discarded it. Sliding his trousers and pants off in one go, kicking away his shoes and socks as he did so, he climbed up behind Sherlock. “Of course, love.”

He worked quickly and carefully, slicking his fingers and working Sherlock open, savoring every mumble and moan that slipped from the man beneath him. When he was sure Sherlock could take it--and that he couldn’t take another moment of teasing--John grabbed the condom, sheathed himself, then pressed forward carefully. Sherlock let out a low cry of pure pleasure as John sank into him, and John watched hungrily as the detective slid a hand back to touch himself, jerking swiftly in time with the doctor’s thrusts into his pliant body. Groaning an affirmation, John gently took hold of Sherlock’s hips, thrusting into him needfully.

It didn’t take long. Sherlock began gasping, a litany of John’s name and the words, “Please, yes, please, yes,” over and over, until they tumbled into their climax together, groaning simultaneously as Sherlock spilled over his own fingers, and John finished inside his tight body, slumping forward to press kisses across his lover’s back.

Slowly they collapsed together, laying on their sides with John’s arm wrapped protectively around Sherlock’s waist. Kissing his shoulder, John smiled against his skin. “Can we do that again? Often? Every day?”

Sherlock gave a sleepy snort of agreeable laughter. “We can certainly try.” 

As John began to drift, Sherlock spoke up again. “But next time, I get to use the crop.”


End file.
